From the abandoned house trailer
with torn screens where raccoons sought shelter,
slept and had babies that chewed the vinyl seats.
Where the pecan trees scratch the sides of an aluminum barn,
blown along with dead leaves
and gasoline exhaust by the lake breeze.
Between the fishing boat with a rusty propeller
and patched cover and wood splitter
that revs and cracks maple logs,
their tree sap dripping down the sides.
I was born from muddy ground
soaking my socks and a brush pile burning.
Leaves and embers floating over cottages
and extinguishing in the wet sand with a hiss,
like fish badder splattering from the deep fryer
and my grandma's voice
"Time to eat and say grace"
and learn life's lessons
of watching your fingers
and watching your toes.
Taught by wet gloves,
tire tracks from different directions
and sea shell wind chimes.